


Little Porcelain Cup (May Spring Bring New Blossoms)

by lilies_in_a_vase



Series: Lilies’ group of Writer’s Block Bullshit - aka Standalone Fics Used To Attempt To Ignite Creativity After Having Forgotten What Words Are [3]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Billy Hargrove Deserves Better, Billy Hargrove Needs a Hug, Billy Hargrove Tries to Be a Better Sibling, Billy Hargrove is a Mess, Child Abuse, Crying Billy Hargrove, Domestic Violence, Gen, Hurt Billy Hargrove, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, POV Billy Hargrove, Post-Season/Series 02, Sick Billy Hargrove, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 18:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29372730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilies_in_a_vase/pseuds/lilies_in_a_vase
Summary: Billy Hargrove loses it on the court one day in April.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove & Maxine "Max" Mayfield
Series: Lilies’ group of Writer’s Block Bullshit - aka Standalone Fics Used To Attempt To Ignite Creativity After Having Forgotten What Words Are [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2081217
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54





	Little Porcelain Cup (May Spring Bring New Blossoms)

**Author's Note:**

> I’m not really certain what the hell this is, guys, but I hope you enjoy nonetheless! 
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING:  
> References to child abuse and domestic violence throughout, particularly being hit by a belt, although it isn’t graphically described. 
> 
> Disclaimer:  
> I don’t own “Stranger Things” and one part is taken straight out of the memories El sees in Billy’s mind in season 3.

Once, when Billy was in middle school, his class had been told to write about their earliest memory. It had felt like a strange task, one of those little things you write on a paper and the teacher barely looks over, one of those assignments you get because the teacher was too tired to come up with something better. 

Billy writes about swimming with his mother. He writes about her hair, and the sun, and the heat, and the way she’d held him and gently set him down in the sand, the way his toes had curled. Billy writes about that day, but it isn’t his earliest memory. 

His earliest memory - _or, what he thinks is his earliest memory, because how do you really know what your earliest memory is?_ \- is much more abstract. 

It’s of a white porcelain cup. It’s a white porcelain cup, with little pale yellow flowers painted on it, a butterfly and a couple birds in flight, and there’s a coffee pot being lowered over it, slowly filling it, filling it more and more and more, until it’s running over, past the edges, the scorching liquid travelling past the rim and down over the kitchen table, spilling like a tsunami.

And then there’s the sound of his dad yelping from pain, and shouting, and the sound of skin meeting skin, and a little drop of blood from his mum’s split lip joins the black on the kitchen table, and then Billy sees her hair flutter by as she falls to the floor. 

But that’s not what sticks with him. What sticks with him, what he remembers most clearly, is the way those last few drops had hit the surface and made it break, had made it lurch up a little, had made it pool over. 

He thinks people are like that. He thinks people are like little white porcelain cups with yellow flowers and fluttering butterfly wings and birds in mid-flight. He thinks that sometimes, the cup will fill, and the liquid will have to escape. Will need to spill over. A little spill. A little. Sometimes, a lot. 

When his mum’s cup spilled over, it usually took the form of tears. Billy had found her like that at times, curled up like a baby and shaking as though she had a fever. Sometimes, Billy had closed the door and left her alone to clean up the liquid. Sometimes, Billy had been the sponge, the towel, the rag, needed to clean up, to soak up the liquid and wring it out, let it evaporate in the California sunlight as his mum laughed. 

When Billy’s mum leaves, he figures he’d closed the door too many times. That he hadn’t been the towel enough. 

When Billy’s dad’s cup spills over, it has a direction, as though the table his cup stands on has one leg slightly longer than the rest, making it tilt, directing the liquid straight into the lap of whoever is unlucky enough to have their designated seat on that end. Before, it’s Billy’s mum, most days, at least, but after, after she leaves, after she changes phone numbers and Billy can’t reach her again, then, it becomes Billy’s seat. 

Before she left, Billy’s spilled liquid would feel like hot tears trailing down hotter cheeks, but after she’s gone, Billy feels like she must’ve taken the warmth with her, because he’s cold. He’s cold, all the goddamn time, except when his cup spills over, because only then, only then is the liquid hot, only when the coffee pot tilts over and lets too much escape, meeting the frozen inside of Billy’s cup and making him picture steam, making him melt, warming him up. When Billy’s liquid spills over, everyone around him is in danger of being scorched. Except for his dad, because Neil is always too far away for the liquid to reach him, has learnt his lesson since that first time Billy’s mum forgot to tilt the coffee pot back. 

Billy feels so cold all the time, and anger is the only thing that heats him up at this point. 

He wonders if the earliest memory a person has really can shape their world view to that extent. If it really can have such an impact on their outlook on life. 

Billy Hargrove loses it on the court one day in April. That’s what everyone will say, later. That’s what his teammates will talk about in the showers, with their families at the dinner table, with their friends when they call them after school, between classes, during lunch. And then, they won’t say anything, they won’t say anything, because everyone will know, and no one will know what to say, what to add. 

Two days ago, Billy’s dad’s cup filled and spilled over. And this time, the spill took the form of his belt in his hand, swinging through the air, and Billy on his belly, biting down screams until he couldn’t hold them anymore. 

Last night, Billy’s cup filled over when Max poured liquid in it, more and more, more for every annoyed look and bitchy word until the liquid turned to breaking speed limits and Max screaming that he was insane, scooping his own liquid up, up, up, away, pouring it into her cup, until it’s ready to spill over, until she’s throwing the Camaro’s door closed and marching into the Arcade, and Billy revs the engine and dries the liquid up with blasted music from tired speakers and hot tears, taking the warmth away from him again as they, too, dry on his skin. 

Today, Billy is staring his seething coach in the eyes and feeling like he’s about to overflow. 

“Billy, come on!” Tommy shouts. “You always play skins!” 

They’re already divided, they’ve been playing the same two teams for the past two weeks now, Billy is supposed to take his jersey off like it’s nothing and show off his abs like it’s nothing, like he doesn’t have bandages around his whole torso, hiding wounds that he hasn’t been able to clean more throughly then by standing underneath the showerhead at home and watching the water turn red as it flows down the drain, and wondering if Billy’s cup is filled with blood more than anything else. 

“For fuck’s sake, Hargrove!” another teammate shouts, one Billy hasn’t bothered learning the name of. They’ve been shouting at him for a while now, and Billy’s tired, Billy’s exhausted. 

“Do you want us to play, or do you wanna keep staring me down, coach?” Billy asks. He doesn’t get why this is so fucking important to them, why they care so much, why they won’t just let him play on the other team for today, why one of them can’t just throw his shirt off so the game can begin. 

“I could bench you,” coach says. “Or I could simply not let you play in the upcoming game. My team is disciplined, California. They listen, and they show me respect.” 

_ Respect and Responsibility, Billy. _ Capital R. 

Billy wants to argue, wants to tell him the only reason they have that game to play is because of Billy, because he’s the best player there, because he’ll play even when he feels like he might die, but this isn’t about that, this isn’t about logic or reason of any kind. This is about power, and this is about principle, and Billy will never win. 

Maybe that’s why he does it. Maybe that is what makes his cup spill, makes it tip over, makes the table it stands on turn over so that the cup doesn’t just spill, but falls to the floor and shatters into a billion little porcelain pieces, makes it go by so quickly Billy doesn’t have time to stop his hand from grabbing his jersey and jerking it off, over his head, throwing it down on the ground at his feet. 

There is no cup anymore, it’s gone, splintered, exploded, broken, fractured, fragmented. Smashed. 

There is nothing to hold in any of Billy’s liquid anymore, there is nothing to stop it, nothing to keep it from leaking all over the place as his teammates throw horrified glances his way, as they stare at bandages Billy knows are spotted, mottled, flecked in red because he felt the blood as it dried.

There is nothing to stop him from melting, from feeling the sudden pressure behind his eyes, from stopping the tears - of fear, of shame, of panic - from escaping, burning down his flushed cheeks like a fuse with gasoline poured on. 

He can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t stay here, he takes one step to escape, to run away -  _ ‘That’s right, run! Like you always do!’ _ \- and he’s falling, his knees sending pain signals to his brain when they knock into the floor, hand reaching up to clutch at his mother’s pendant, rubbing over the Saint Christopher image, patron saint of travellers, patron saint of surfing,  _ please, oh please, help me cross the shards and stormy waters that I’ve spilled.  _

Steve Harrington’s blurry face is in front of Billy’s, but he can barely make out what he’s saying from the rushing in his ears. 

“Breathe, Billy. Breathe.” 

Billy shakes his head, because it’s over, it’s all over, he’s destroyed everything, he doesn’t know what to do, there’s nowhere for him to go. 

Hands on his arms pull him up to standing, the coach’s sweaty stench foul in his nose but Billy doesn’t pull away because he doesn’t think he’d be able to walk by himself if he tried.

The school nurse has kind hands, Billy learns, as she gently, slowly, softly, unwraps the bandages, unraveling him piece by bloody piece. She lays him down on his stomach, feels his forehead and checks his temperature and tells him he’s got a fever, and Billy thinks he hears the click of a photograph being taken but better than he ever could, she cleans each welt, one by one. 

Nobody thought to bring his gym bag, but she has a blanket, which she wraps around his shoulders, and he reaches up to clutch at it, at the soft wool, warming him up and decreasing his shivering and starting to soak up the spill. 

Billy’s homeroom teacher is waiting outside, and she doesn’t say anything when he steps outside, just takes one look at his pathetic form with sad eyes Billy’s tried to avoid his whole life, taking him by the arm and leading him to the principal’s office. 

“William.” 

The Chief’s there. The Chief’s there, and Billy still remembers the night he saw the Chief’s cup spill over, the night he woke up on a stranger’s floor with the Chief yelling him in the face, remembers his head hurting so bad he was certain he was going to die. Billy stops in the doorway, wants to turn around, wants to back away, but Ms. Reid is behind him and the principal is in front of him and the Chief is staring at him from across the room with crossed arms so Billy can’t walk forward either. 

“William.” 

“No,” Billy whispers, shaking his head. He’s going to drown, and no saint will be able to pull him back up. 

There’s a fourth person in the room, another woman Billy only knows from having passed by her office once or twice and seeing her in there. Her curtains are only drawn when she’s speaking to a student. The school counsellor. 

She’s short, and she’s coming up to him, stopping in front of him. 

“William-“ she starts, but Billy shifts. It’s not that he dislikes his full name, it’s only that it’s only ever said when things are serious, when things are important, when he’s talking to professionals he’s supposed to lie to, and Billy hasn’t lied, has shown them his secrets and cracked and wrecked his cup beyond repair and he doesn’t think people get a new one. 

She must see his distress, because she tries again, saying, “Will,” this time, and Billy scrunches his face up in distaste. 

“‘Billy’,” the Chief says. 

“Billy. Can you come and sit down? No one’s going to hurt you.” 

They’re staring at him, and Billy wants them to stop, so he goes to sit down in one of the chairs, hears them start talking above him, about him, around him, but he’s not listening, retreating into his head and cutting his hands on broken pottery pieces. He keeps his eyes trained on the clock, and at half past, he stands up. 

“Billy...?” Ms. Reid says, throwing her hand out and placing it on a blanket-covered arm. 

“Hey!“ the principal exclaims. 

“Where are you-?” the counsellor starts. 

“Max,” Billy explains, because it’s half past, and Max will be waiting for him, will need him to drive her home. 

“Who’s Max?” the principal asks. 

“His stepsister,” Hopper answers. “She goes to the middle school. He picks her up every day.” 

“He can’t drive her home today.” 

“No,  _ I know that_, Peter.” 

“I’ll get her,” Ms. Reid says. “The redhead? My niece goes to her class. You can sit down, Billy.” 

So Billy sits back down, and pulls the blanket tighter around himself. Thinks about cracked porcelain and spilled coffee and belt buckles that break skin. He’s starting to shiver again.

It feels like a second goes by, like he closes his eyes for a minute and when he opens them again, Max is standing in the doorway, staring at him. 

“Billy?” she says, quietly, the adults still speaking. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, everything’s going to change, I’m sorry,” he whispers, and the adults quieten, turn to stare at him but Billy doesn’t care. Because Max hates him, Billy’s made sure of it, and Max’ parents have already split once and now they’re going to split again and Billy doesn’t know what will happen but he’s probably destroyed her life along with his own. Her cup will be close to spilling and Billy is ready for her to pour the liquid over where his once was, because it’s already broken, it’s already gone, it’s in pieces and Max is still whole. 

“What’s going on?” she asks. “Hopper?”

“Max,” the counsellor says, voice gentle, kind, nice. “Has your stepfather ever hurt you?” 

Max blanches, the opposite of Billy, his cheeks growing red from mortification. “What? No, why would... Billy?” It seems like she’s finally taken in Billy’s appearance, taken in the new bandages around his torso, the way he shivers even with a wool blanket around his shoulders. 

She steps closer to him, takes ahold of the edge of the blanket and pulls it up, staring at him with wide eyes. “Did Neil do this?” 

Billy looks away, looks at the ground and expects it to be wet, feels like his head moves in tune with the coffee pot he’s waiting for when he nods, he’s waiting for it to scorch him now that there is no cup for the liquid to land in at all. 

But it doesn’t happen, it doesn’t, because instead Max comes closer, opens both her arms and reaches out and Billy, quivering, shuddering, quaking like the earthquake he’s unleashed on their lives, leans against her. Max is warm, and Billy’s cold, has been cold for years, and Max is warm, and this is the first hug he’s had since his mum left. 

“How long, Billy? How long has he been doing this?”

With his little sister holding him together, Billy tells them about his first memory, but he doesn’t focus on the little white porcelain cup with yellow flowers and birds and a butterfly, he focuses on his mum’s trembling hands which couldn’t hold the weight of the coffee pot from the fingerprint bruises on her wrist, on the little speck of defiance in her eyes, seconds before the cup had overflown and his dad had yelped and struck her and how Billy doesn’t remember him as anything other than that, than the monster that escaped from under the bed and took up residence in the rest of his life. 

Later, later, Neil will be gone, the beast slain by the Chief of Police, and Max will be there, will still be there, will stay, and Susan will stay, and later, many, many years later, Billy will read an article about a Japanese art called  _ kintsukuroi_, the art of repairing broken pottery with gold, and for the first time in a long while, he will look inside himself, and see his cup shimmer.   
  


**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys liked it! Please let me know what you thought!


End file.
